


The Pumpkin King

by Prius



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blowjobs, Bondage, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Junkenstein AU, M/M, handjobs, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-17 01:37:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12354738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prius/pseuds/Prius
Summary: The Witch of the Wilds isn't amused when she and her servants lose to four rag-tag fools- and she decides the leader of the insolent heroes should be the one to take the fall.By proxy, of course. Witches don't ever get their hands dirty.





	1. Chapter 1

They don’t  _ stop.  _

They keep going, and going, and going, and going, and going. 

They’re all tired. It’s been five hours of constant fighting. Four hours in, the archer collapsed and was nearly torn to pieces by the rabid zomnics, but the gunslinger managed to rescue him and the alchemist brought him back from the brink of unconsciousness. He currently rests on a tall wooden perch on the right half of the castle, making little pained noises every time he draws his bow. 

It’s understandable- there’s a large draw weight on the weapon, and it takes a  _ lot  _ more physical effort than just pulling a trigger. 

But he’s not the only one who’s suffering. The gunslinger keeps swapping hands with his revolver, shaking out his wrist and flexing his fingers. His accuracy suffers when he uses his left hand, but he can’t help it- it’s either swap hands or have his shooting hand cramp into an unusable claw. When they have a second of lull, he takes off his hat and fans himself. He took off his coat around midnight, rolled up his sleeves at one, unbuttoned the front of his shirt around two. On the track he’s going on, he’ll be naked by dawn. 

The alchemist has pinned up her hair in a bun- fans the back of her neck occasionally, has taken a strict sentry position on the right, too exhausted to be getting up and moving around. She’s taken off her coat and is using it as a cushion, instead of sitting on the hard flagstones. Her sleeves are rolled up, too, and whenever there’s a soft lapse in the waves, she massages her wrists, stretches out her legs.

The soldier refuses to acknowledge any weakness. He’s been running around all night, shooting and bashing with his gun, unwavering, but when he stands still, his calves are visibly shaking and his famed accuracy is starting to slip- missing headshots and taking bodyshots. He’s been panting since the third hour, and looks to be in desperate need of a rest. Whenever any of the other heroes try to gently suggest he take a break, he shoots them a glare and pushes himself harder.

Despite the cool night air, they’re all sweating like they’re in southern summer. 

Their only reprieve from the exhaustion is the alchemist’s sciences. When she darts one of them, their limbs stop feeling heavy, their panting stops, they are charged with energy. It’s heaven- glorious restedness, strength. But the crash that comes down after is a depressing reminder of how they really feel, how they  _ really  _ are. Exhausted. Probably going to succumb to wounds. The assault  _ isn’t ending.  _

The gunslinger has already professed his last will and testament. The archer was crying earlier, and no one dared to bring it up. The alchemist had, in a thick voice, started telling all of them about how much she loved her daughter. The soldier had quietly told them all that he had a pistol, and he’d saved four bullets, one for each of them, if they wanted a quick death. 

Now they’re too tired to fear for their lives. They all wearily crest the waves, ticking closer and closer until their inevitable death. 

Then, it goes quiet. 

“Is it over?” The archer asks hoarsely.

“Who cares?” The gunslinger drops to the ground. He starts taking off his shirt- he throws it carelessly in the direction of his coat, which he chucked next to the castle three hours ago. Sits back and pants, eyes closed, head dropped backward to expose his flushed Adam’s apple. “It gives us a goddamn break. And we  _ need _ a goddamn break.” 

“Stay awake,” The soldier says, sharply. “This isn’t over. I can feel it.” 

“I’m with the soldier,” The alchemist says. Her gaze sweeps over the ramparts, wary  _ and  _ weary. “They wouldn’t just  _ stop.”  _

“We killed the Reaper, the Monster, the Summoner, the doctor himself,” The archer croaks. “What more could there be?” 

The earth begins to shake. The gunslinger slowly gets to his feet aching feet, pistol drawn. The soldier takes a rigid stance- legs solidly squared underneath him, gun levied, chest heaving. The alchemist hurriedly swirls and mixes another healing potion, rakes her fingers through her sweaty hair. The archer’s bandaged, swollen fingers move to rest lightly on the bowstring. 

A figure appears from nowhere- in a burst of golden light, the Witch of the Wilds. 

“My servants  _ never  _ die!” 

And, in a swirling halo of golden light, the monsters they had slain rematerialized. The Reaper, flexing his claws and readjusting to life- the lights in his pumpkin head flickering on. The Monster, taking a deep breath and making a bellowing cough, arms outstretched as if to embrace the world itself. The Summoner, rising in a swirl of flame and embers alongside the sickly yellow light, baring her fangs and re-determined. The Doctor, rising up from the flagstones with a dizzy groan, scrubbing his eyes. They all turn back to the four heroes- fists clenched, weapons held tight, anger plain on all their faces. 

\- the gunslinger starts wailing in grief- “ _ No, no, no, no! That’s not fair, that’s not fair!” -  _

\- the archer’s eyes widen in horror and his grip on his bow falters -

\- the alchemist realizes, with a cold feeling in her chest, that she doesn’t have enough potions - 

\- the soldier’s knees start to shake, hard, and he realizes that he can’t do this, he’s exhausted and tired and can’t breathe without panting - 

Their spirits have simultaneously been crushed, splintered, and they all quake like the leaves on an aspen tree. They don’t have long before the assault starts. Junkenstein lobs explosives, the Summoner’s fire burns in her chest and throat, the Monster stomps after them, the Reaper hisses threats and dissolves into mist, the Witch stays behind them all and casts healing spells. 

“The Witch first!” The soldier cries, hoarsely. The rest of them grab onto his instruction and attack- the archer fires arrow after arrow with blistered fingers, the alchemist mixes potion after potion, the gunslinger’s six-shooter finds its mark again and again, the soldier charges in everywhich direction, rounds snapping off from his gun. 

The Witch falls first. Then the Reaper. Then the Summoner. Then the Monster, and finally, Junkenstein.

The battle is grueling. The Witch dies to the soldier- multiple rounds snap off into the Witch’s head, until she falls. The Reaper is pierced by an arrow, sailing through his triangular eye to puncture whatever head lays inside. The Summoner is taken out by potion to the chest- her fire is snuffed and she screams as she bursts into embers and succumbs to her wounds. The Monster is taken down by the gunslinger, with six shots in the gargantuan beast’s eyes, nostrils, and forehead. 

Junkenstein is slain by the archer. They’re so close to the end, the desperation in the air is palpable. 

“ _ RYUU WAGA TEKI WO KURAU-”  _

The arrow sails through the air- solidly lands in Junkenstein’s chest- and he is hurriedly devoured by twin dragons, glowing an electric, crackling blue. Everyone’s hair stands on end as the monsters roar and whirl, tear Junkenstein into pieces.

And then-

Quiet.

The wind whistles low, but there is no ambient hum of the zomnic’s twisted life. There is no crackling sizzle as lightning arcs from their joints. There is no gunfire, there is no footsteps, there’s no scent of brimstone and fire and pumpkin and liquid and rotting meat. Their bodies dissolve into a yellow glow that eventually dims and is scattered into the wind, the last embers of evil winking out in the darkness of the night.

“It’s  _ o-o-o-overrrrrrr,”  _ The gunslinger’s whine is loud, relieved,  _ gleeful.  _ “Holy shit. Holy shit. We did it. We  _ did  _ it.” 

He flops down on the ground again, spread-eagle- a hysteric huff of breath leaves him. 

“Get up. Keep some of your dignity intact,” The archer says haughtily.

“ _ My  _ dignity? I know you pissed your britches when ya saw all of ‘em get resurrected. Can smell it from here.” 

“I did not-!” The archer snaps back, angrily.

“Please,  _ please  _ don’t fight,” The alchemist sighs. “We’ve won what’s tantamount to a war with just four people. Right now we need rest.” 

“I ain’t gettin’ up. I’ll sleep on the damn ground, I don’t care.” McCree says. “They better throw us a parade or some shit. The prettiest wenches and swains in all of Adlersbrunn, just for me.” 

“You’re not going to be sharing, gunslinger?” The alchemist asks, amusement coloring her voice. “I could go for a wench or two.” 

There’s a hearty laugh between the two of them- the gunslinger’s breathlessness betraying his bone-deep exhaustion- and the archer groans in disgust.

“I will be heading back East, as soon as I’ve adequately rested.” He says, prim and sharp. The gunslinger sits up.

“If you wait a coupl’a days for me to party-harty, bed a few guys’n gals, I’ll go with you.” 

“And why would you want to do that?” 

“Lookin’ for some pretty swains, don’t you remember?” He winks. Roguishly. The archer huffs in disgust. 

“I am  _ not  _ a swain, and I find you utterly loathsome.” 

“Don’t talk like that, honeybee-” 

“Wait,” The alchemist says, abruptly. “Where did the soldier go?” 

“The soldier?” The gunslinger asks, curiously. His eyes rove past- running over the ramparts, the center walkway, and the slight stoop to their right. The man is, indeed, nowhere in sight. “He seemed the mysterious type. Prolly ran away soon’s the fighting ended so he wouldn’t have to small-talk.” 

“Or listen to your inept flirting,” The archer snarks. 

“Whoa! I’m a lot ‘o things, but inept ain’t one of ‘em-” 

“Boys,” The alchemist cuts in. “I know the soldier, and he wouldn’t have left me without a goodbye.” 

“Well, looks like he did,” The gunslinger says. “What else could’a happened?”

“I don’t know,” She says, uncertainly. “This doesn’t feel right.” 

And the soldier, in a dreamless sleep and carried in the Reaper’s arms, flanked by a group of disgruntled monsters, probably would’ve been thinking the same thing. 


	2. Sucks To Be You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This doesn't look good.

The soldier wakes up to all of his muscles feebly screaming in exhaustion.

Particularly his legs, upper arms. He knew it was going to be like this- you don’t get _that_ exhausted without getting sore the morning after. The feeble ache in his calves and thighs and the sting if he tries to move is practically an old friend.

He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, shifts a little and has his muscles subsequently whine in protest. He doesn’t remember anything, not past watching Junkenstein get mauled by the archer’s glowing dragons.

When his eyes eventually peel open to figure out where he is, he’s met with the sight of a wooden roof- old, spiderwebbed.

He glances around- more old wood. A cabin, maybe? Certainly a wooden structure. He’s trying to remember how he got here, but he’s drawing up a blank. Passed out, after the battle, and someone brought him to one of the Adlersbrunn inns, maybe. The alchemist would, he thinks, but she’s too slight to be carrying him far. Maybe if the gunslinger and archer helped- but they were _all_ bone-tired after the seemingly endless assault on the castle.

He could’ve walked to one himself. Been so goddamn tired by the end of the fight that his memory shorted out- or, he could’ve drunk himself into a stupor to celebrate his victory.

No, that last part doesn’t sound right. He would’ve kept sober, just in case he needed to get up and get back into the fight at a moment’s notice.

He tries to get up, and when he can’t, his mind puts it all together.

He doesn’t remember anything.

He’s in a strange place.

He’s _tied down-_ he hasn’t noticed, until just now, but he’s tied to a bed. His wrists tied together, laid on his chest, clasped like a corpse’s-  and his legs are bound to the lower bedposts, spread wide. Experimental ( and painful ) yanks produce no fruit, and when he tries to sit up, he’s kept tied down by a relatively soft rope that loops around his chest, just beneath his pectorals, and lashes him to the bed.

“What the hell-” His voice is a little scratchy.

In a rush of golden light, the Witch of the Wilds appears. He should’ve known that creatures like her were too determined to be slain with mere bullets- but he had hoped, _hoped,_ that it would take a while for her to regenerate, gather her strength.

“What is this?” He demands.

“You’ve put…” She pauses, for dramatic effect, he thinks. She sits down on the edge of the bed, thigh almost brushing him. He wiggles, just a little, trying to not touch her. He stops when she licks her lips, stares at him with keen interest. “A little snag into my plans. You and the other wanderers.”

“The others? Where are they?” The alchemist- they go back, go back far. He worries for her, the same way she’s probably worrying for him at this exact moment.

“I only had enough magic to take you.” She says. Now that he’s stopped struggling, she’s losing interest- she glances away. “You were the _leader._ As far as I am concerned, without you, we would have succeeded in taking Adlersbrunn.”

“I did what was right,” He says, stubbornly.

“Oh, is that so?” She gets up, and he feels as though the lack proximity is somehow _worse_ than having her close. He can see the anger wrinkling her perfect golden brows. “You think of yourself as some kind of _hero,_ then?”

“Not a hero. A soldier.”

Her perfect lips twist in a snarl. The Witch of the Wilds may be _pretty,_ but it’s only skin-deep. He glares back at her, unaffected.

“You’re _about_ to become a casualty,” She says, sharply.

He should’ve expected as much. He bares his teeth at her, defiant. If he’s gonna die here, it’s gonna be with a bang, not a whimper.

“Do it, then,” He says. “You’ve got me tied down, you witch, even _you_ could kill me now.”

She laughs. That puts him off a bit- what’s she _laughing_ about?- “Oh, you think _I’m_ going to-? No. Witches don’t kill people- witches have _other_ people kill people. No, I’ve got a much more fitting fate for you.”

He glares, trying to not let any apprehension show on his face. _Fitting fate?_ What does that mean? The hell is she talking about-?

“That’s cute,” She says. Her tone is condescending, as though she’s talking to a small child, and it makes his skin prickle in an inflamed, shamed way. “You’re trying to figure out what I’m talking about, right? What on earth the big bad witch’s _fate_ could be?” Her fingers touch down on his forehead, run down the bridge of his nose in a mocking way. He snaps at her fingers with his teeth, but she yanks her away before he can bite her.

She wordlessly gets up and heads for the door. He shifts, anxiously, tries to pull at the ropes around his wrists. No matter how he twists and shifts- his muscles screaming all the while- the damn things don’t loosen.

The door shuts behind her with a loud snap. There’s quiet talking, and the soldier stops struggling a second to listen. Can’t hear it, too muffled- he returns back to writhing, pulling at his bonds.

The door opens again, and he stills.

The form of the Reaper stands there. Jagged light shines from his pumpkin head, a dim yellowish-orange, and he seems to dominate the smallness of the room with just his mere presence.

The two have a staring contest- the Reaper and the soldier, eyes locked.

Then the soldier starts struggling again, even more earnestly- jerking at his restrained feet, hissing in rage, as a warning to not come closer. The Reaper breaks eye contact for a second, and quietly removes the pumpkin helm. When it’s halfway off his head, the light abruptly flickers out, and it leaves his face for view.

His skin is greyed, tinged unhealthily, like a corpse. The Reaper’s eyes are inhuman- inky black sclera, with strikingly scarlet irises. His ears, formerly rounded, have tapered to a point, almost vampiric. Adding onto the vampiric appearance, he has unnaturally sharp teeth- extended canines that are noticeable if he even slightly parts his lips. He bears scars from his past life- a few narrow slashes across his cheekbone and his eyebrow. His goatee is jet-black, frosted with a light dusting of grey and white hairs, showcasing that he hasn’t been entirely untouched by time. His close-cropped hair is the same way- greying at the temples and middle of his forehead.

The soldier knows this face, even though he hasn’t seen it in a long, long time. He doesn’t stare for more than a few seconds; his eyes gravitate towards the nearby wall, uncomfortable with maintaining eye contact.

The pumpkin being dropped to the ground- and the subsequent _thump-_ startles the soldier into snapping his gaze back at him.

The soldier thinks of all the millions of things he could be saying to the Reaper- threats, curses, bribes, apologies- but he doesn’t say anything. Just stares and somehow hopes that lying still and docile will be enough to keep the Reaper off of him.

He likes his soul.

He really doesn’t want to lose it to the Reaper. He _really doesn’t._

The Reaper takes a step closer. Then another, then he’s crossed the room, and the soldier finally manages to get something out:

“ _Christ-”_

“No God to help you now, soldier.” His tone is a soft, muted rumble, like some kind of big cat’s growl. “No point in calling his name.”

The Reaper runs a gloved hand over the soldier’s stomach- a shiver snaps up his spine, and he can’t help but twitch.

“I want to kill you. Very badly.” The Reaper says quietly. His hand slides up the soldier’s chest, to his collarbone, and comes to lightly rest over his throat, the meat of the monster’s palm on his Adam’s apple. The soldier braces himself for a crushing grip, to be asphyxiated. But the Reaper’s hand slides away, moves to the soldier’s bound wrists.

The Reaper wrenches them upward- off his chest, to rest on the headboard. The soldier resists- he’s not going to be _manipulated_ like some kind of doll- but the Reaper _forces_ them there, and grabs another spool of rope which’s been limply laid over the back of the headboard, probably just for this purpose. The Reaper restrains him in a few deft motions, and the soldier tugs, testing the strength- the Reaper cinches them tighter, as punishment.

Contented with his work, the Reaper circles back towards the soldier’s feet. He runs a hand up his ankle, and the soldier twitches in revulsion at the light caress.

He’s shoeless- God knows where his boots have gone- and his socks’ve been stripped away. The Reaper’s got full access to slide his hand past the cuff of the soldier’s pants and up his calf. The monster stops at his knee and pulls back, eyes sweeping over the soldier’s form.

“But I can’t kill you. The Witch of the Wilds gave me an order. And I am bidden to follow her commands.”

“Listening to orders isn’t like you,” The soldier puffs, sounding braver than he feels. The Reaper ignores him.

“Do you know what that order was?”

“No, I don’t-”

“To make you cry,” The Reaper says. The pad of his middle and forefinger rub against his ankle, in short, soothing circles. “I’m going to enjoy this, _Morrison.”_

 _To make you cry?_ Vague. Ominous. A knotted ball of dread tightens in his stomach- the soldier hasn’t cried since he was much younger, since what feels like another lifetime ago. He would’ve thought he was out of tears to shed.

The Reaper starts stripping himself- gloves, first, then unbuckling the clasps on his coat, which he lets drop to the ground. The accentuated belts at his waist are next to go, and the soldier watches in apprehension-

He doesn’t think the Reaper is rolling up his sleeves to prep for a beating.

Holy Christ.

“No- _No!”_

The Reaper chuckles, evidently pleased the soldier is catching on.

“You can end this early if you start crying…”

“Fuck off!”

“Didn’t think you’d go for it,” Reaper chuckles. He crawls onto the bed, sits on the soldier’s stomach. The soldier twitches, strains, vainly, but he can't get him off and he can’t stop the Reaper from unzipping his jacket. The Reaper runs his hands appreciatively over the soldier’s flesh, fondling the swell of his pectorals without any shame.

The Reaper tilts his head, smiles when he hears the man underneath him make a tiny, bitten whine.

“Like getting your tits groped?” The Reaper asks, pleasantness belying the vicious undertone.

“They're not-!” He tries to protest.

He rubs the soldier’s left nipple through the thin material of his shirt, and his grin turns much less pleasant when the man makes a strangled choking sound in the back of his throat.

He insistently pulls the soldier’s shirt so it bunches up around his armpits. The Reaper sets his mouth upon the poor veteran, tongue laving over one of the soldier’s rosy nubs before it's brought into his mouth. There are too many goddamn teeth in the Reaper’s skull for the soldier to _not_ be worried about getting bit, so he holds his breath and tries not to groan when his tongue flicks in _just_ the right way-

There's a little smacking sound when the Reaper pulls off. Just as the soldier feared, he doesn't get out of it unscathed- Reaper _bites,_ leaving a perfect red ring of toothmarks caging his nipple. The soldier yelps- pained- and the Reaper laps at the bite, in a mockingly loving way.

Evidently growing bored with just the soldier’s top half, he ventures down south. One hand starts idly kneading his left pec, the other journeying to the zipper of the soldier’s pants. That renews a wave of struggling- the soldier lets out a bitten cry of anger, snaps his teeth shut before he can lose enough of his dignity to plead.

“Just a little tear, soldier-boy…” The Reaper coaxes. The slide of the zipper produces an almost animal instinct out of the soldier- he tries to _lunge_ away, biceps and thighs _straining_ against the ropes, but it doesn't matter a damn bit. The zipper goes down and a _very_ intrusive hand slides down to cup his still-soft dick.

“That won't do,” The Reaper murmurs. His eyes halfway slide shut, lips slightly pursed. His ministrations are slight, gentle at first, tenderly stroking the soldier’s cock to fullness.

The soldier makes a few broken whimpers, some choked-back whines. God damn the Witch, god damn the Reaper, he fills out until he’s hard, _painfully_ hard. Fear and arousal crash together and he swallows bile.

The Reaper shimmies the soldier’s pants further down his hips, and his cock springs up excitedly in a way that’d be comical if it weren't for his dire straits.

“Oh! At least one of you is eager.” The Reaper’s smile is all teeth. He repositions, planting himself between the soldier’s legs. He leans forward, lips half an inch from the reddened crown of the soldier’s stiffened cock. Every slow breath from the Reaper puffs against the sensitive head; it makes his unwilling partner’s thigh twitch, his breaths tight and strained.

He licks. Draws his tongue slowly, teasingly, across the soldier’s glans. Drags a whine out of his unwanting throat, makes him pull and twitch again.

“Reyes-” he gasps.

The Reaper rumbles- angry or pleased, the soldier can't tell- and he envelops the head of the soldier’s cock in his mouth. He is painfully, _frighteningly_ aware of how many fangs are in that mouth, and when he tries to say something in protest, they scrape against his skin and he falls silent.

The Reaper knows how to suck a dick. The teeth are a constant threat, but never do more than graze; the motion of his tongue and the bobbing of his head is _divine_ and the soldier hates it, hates all of it. Moans burble in his throat, leave his mouth against his will. They get louder, increase in pitch and desperation as the Reaper sinks deeper on his cock with every torturously blissful rise and fall of his head.

“Ga- _Gabriel-”_ He tries to get him to stop- but the plead for that is choked up in his next pleasured groan.

It feels like an _eternity_ before the soldier gets a second of mercy- the Reaper pulls off, licks his lips. Before the soldier can talk, a calloused thumb starts rolling over his slit, denying him the chance to protest and forcing a tight whimper from his throat.

“You're lasting longer than I thought you would,” the Reaper sneers. “Come on, soldier-boy.”

And then his hands are replaced with his lips again, taking the soldier down to the hilt. He _gasps,_ bucks up into the Reaper’s warm, wet mouth- and immediately feels like fucking _slime_ for doing so. The Reaper doesn’t give him a second to pause and feel bad about involuntary face-fucking- he bobs, up and down, diligent and _fast,_ tongue bathing the underside of his dick.

The Reaper pulls up for a second, mouthing around the slit of the soldier’s cock, and he can’t _take it_ anymore. The soldier wails, back arching, wrists straining against the ropes as he cums-

The Reaper moves away, licking his lips.

“Gabriel- Gabriel, _stop.”_ The soldier’s chest is heaving, up and down, and he feels _light and dizzy._ Not quite to passing out- fainting from an orgasm is bad form- but the floatiness in his head, the bone crushing exhaustion in his limbs...

The Reaper slaps him, and that sharpens him up a shred. Quells some of the welling hysteria in his chest.

“You’re not crying,” The Reaper notes. There is no disappointment or displeasure in his voice- if anything, he sounds _pleased._ In his bitter, self-pitying mind, the soldier thinks it’s because he _wants_ more time to torture him.

“Reyes, _plea-”_

“I’ll gag you,” He threatens, idly. “Don’t need your voice to cry.”

“This is _insane,_ Reyes, insa-”

The Reaper’s fist slaps down over his mouth- fingernails digging into his cheek. “No more talking.”

And that’s all the reprieve the soldier gets.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ain't edited so you get this Trash or whatever i guess


	3. You're Fucked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This looks even worse.

The Reaper leans back for a moment to admire his handiwork.

The soldier’s face is red- his eyes distant, lusty, struggling to come back into coherency after orgasm. He’s panting, ever so slightly, his breath rattling in his lungs, nipples swollen and enticing. His cock is soft, nestled between his thighs, still slightly red from all the previous attention. He’ll need a refractory period- men the soldier’s age don’t just spring up right after, so sucking him off until he’s forced to tears is momentarily tabled.

The Reaper idly rubs his thumb against the oversensitive head of the soldier’s cock- gets a gasp, a wiggle, as if the poor man can’t decide whether he wants more or not.

“Ga- _Gabriel-”_ God, Reaper _loves_ the sound of his voice. Utterly trashed and debauched, a little scratchy and maybe just the _tiniest_ quiver, which tells the monster that his goal of _crying through sex_ won’t be impossible. “Jesus Christ, _stop,_ ple-”

He ducks his head and licks a stripe up the still-soft dick, and the soldier twinges and makes a throaty, overwhelmed moan.

“I c- can’t-”

“Yes, you can.” The Reaper says. He knows the soldier’s limits. Getting a blowjob isn’t _too much,_ and shouldn’t be unless he’s a teenage virgin.

He gets up from between the soldier’s thighs- steals the pillow from under the veteran’s head and repositions it under his ass, to get a better angle. The soldier croaks a worried _“Gabriel?”_ and the Reaper feels his _own_ cock burn. He adores seeing Jack like this- tied up, at his mercy, and he gets a special pleasure in having wide, fucked-out blue eyes look at _him,_ reverently. Most of all, he loves the _fear_ on the man’s face, worry at the unknown. As far as the Reaper is aware, this is his first time in the _penetrated_ role- the soldier always seemed the type to fuck and not to _be_ fucked.

He basks in this, just for a minute, before he moves on with it. Slicks his fingers with his tongue, gets them wet- he thinks about shoving them in the soldier’s mouth, get _him_ involved, but that’ll result in bitten off fingers.

He circles the soldier’s delicate pucker with a forefinger- gets a frightened gasp and watches the poor man flex, trying to deter any intrusion.

He doesn’t tell him to relax. That’s an exercise in futility. He slowly pushes a finger in and the soldier _yells,_ hips bucking up to stop the intrusion. The Reaper moves, accordingly- planting one hand on his pubic bone to keep him still. He wiggles, still, but it’s much more muted; can’t go up, can’t go down, and his bonds keep his legs spread. The Reaper presses onward, slowly inching a finger into his hole.

“No,” The soldier whimpers, and Reaper drinks it in like the finest wine. “No, please-”

Reaper wonders if it hurts. Not his problem if it does.

He comes up to the first knuckle, decides that’s enough- adds another finger, which has the old soldier yowling pitiably, back arching in a futile attempt at escape. Reaper takes his time with this- as much _pain_ as he’d like to cause the man, you don’t _need_ to be in pain to _suffer._ He scissors and stretches carefully, hears choked sounds that could be pleas for mercy, whines and labored breaths. No tears, though.

“St- _stop,_ Gabriel, _please-”_

The Reaper laughs in reply- twists his fingers and finds the soldier’s prostate, which has his whole body juddering as pleasurable lightning snaps up his spine. The soldier lets out a deep, incoherent moan, and Reaper _delights_ in the way the man’s face blooms red in sheer mortification.

The old soldier starts earnestly struggling again- clenching down, pulling at his restraints. It seems that despite his pleasured outburst, he doesn’t like it too much.

Good.

He lovingly abuses that spot- ignoring the soldier’s tiny cries and attempts at bucking his hips, either seeking pleasure or trying to get away… Or possibly both.

The soldier’s cock has been twitching and filling out through the whole ordeal- it stands erect again, flushed and anxious.

“What’s this?” The Reaper muses, not bothering to hide his amusement. He flicks the head of the soldier’s dick, gets a pained, pathetic cry in response. The Reaper momentarily considers the merits of sucking him off again- his cock looks very _anxious_ for attention. “You’re hard again, Jack. Do you _like_ this?”

“No!” He gasps, loudly.

“Liar,” The Reaper spits- he expertly jolts the soldier’s prostate, has him arch and wail, gasping desperately. “You love it.”

The soldier makes a slurry of breathless, whined protests- incoherent words that mean _nothing._ Fluff and filler, _noise._ Reaper adds a third finger.

“F- _fuck,_ that’s _too much-”_ He seizes up and the Reaper rolls his eyes. For a man who could run around for hours without a word of complaint, he’s awfully whiny.

“No, it’s not,” He hisses. He ruthlessly spreads and scissors, gets twitches and pathetic cries from the poor soldier. He is not all cruelty- he gives the man’s prostate a little nudge every once and awhile to hear him yowl and feel him attempt to buck against the palm Reaper has flattened against his lower belly.

And eventually, enough is enough. He pulls his fingers away, wipes them on the soldier’s pantleg. He gets a whine in reply- confused, frightened.

The Reaper feels his cock twitch.

The soldier uses the disappearance of the Reaper’s fingers to bare down- clench, tightly. Reaper prods at the pucker just to hear him make an involuntary grunt, and he goes for his fly. The soldier evidently recognizes the sounds of unbuckling belts and shuffling cloth, because he panics, panics big time.

He starts throwing his weight earnestly against the ropes- biceps flexing beautifully as he fruitlessly jerks and pulls. It has to hurt- the stiff fibers of the rope are taking skin every time he twists his wrists, but he keeps going. The Reaper wonders if the old soldier is going to start bleeding.

Doesn’t matter. He re-positions himself between the soldier’s legs, wipes his fingers off again, just in case. Takes a deep breath and strokes his own length a few times. The sight of the soldier staring at him in a mix of _fear_ and _horror_ is arousing enough in its own right, enough that he could jerk off and cum quick with that- but why the fuck would he be satisfied with his hand when he’s got a warm, not so willing hole he could be pummeling?

He growls, delightedly. Leans in. The soldier shrieks and attempts to kick, but the binds keep him in place. The Reaper looks into his eyes, _watches_ when he realizes his physical struggling is fruitless, that he can’t get away-

And then he begs.

“Gabriel- Gabriel, _please, please,_ you- you don’t have t- to do this- You just need me to cry, right-?”

“Right,” The Reaper agrees, distantly. The head of his cock pokes between the soldier’s cheeks, and he lets out a panicked squeal that a man of his size and occupation had no business making. The Reaper _loves_ it. Wants to hear more of that. Hopes that once he pops the head in the soldier’ll make a noise _just_ like that.

“You don’t- need to do this- to make me cry. _Any_ other method, _please-”_

He thrusts, shallowly. Misses, doesn’t quite make it in. The soldier whimpers, trying to clamp his cute little pucker shut. Doesn’t help.

“God- Gabriel, please, please _stop,_ **_anything_ ** _else-”_

He guides himself this time- prods at the soldier’s hole, takes a deep breath, lets it out as he pushes in. The poor captive twitches and clenches his fists, squeezes his eyes shut and makes what _sounds_ like a prayer. The Reaper wants all his attention where it should be- on _him-_ and bucks his hips for a sharp, short thrust. The soldier wails, pain and misery or something similar. The Reaper continues to press forward, eagerly hastening on until he can feel his whole length sheathed in the soldier’s warm heat.

“God,” He can’t keep his voice any higher than a growl. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard, even to himself. “You feel _good.”_

The soldier has his head twisted to look away- expression supremely miserable. His breaths are jagged, hiccupy in a way that suggests a sob. But there aren’t any physical tears yet, which means his work isn’t done.

That’s fine by him.

His eyes are screwed shut, nostrils flared, lips mashed together. When the Reaper pulls out, he whimpers between clenched teeth, and when he thrusts back _in,_ there’s a shallow keen.

His suffering is _gorgeous._

He finds a rhythm- a smooth back and forth that isn’t too leisurely or too brutal. Reaper starts groaning on his own accord, because _fuck,_ as much as he wanted the soldier to suffer, this method of suffering feels physically _and_ mentally good.

The current strategy the soldier’s going for seems to be _blocking it out,_ which is no good. Reaper leans forward- thumbs one of his nipples, which earns a tiny gasp, and grabs a handful of hair. He forcibly yanks Jack’s head closer, which still doesn’t get his eyes to open.

The Reaper kisses him. That gets his eyes to snap open, but there’s not a damn thing he can do to stop Gabriel- the soldier tries to bite, but he can’t move his head enough to snap at the Reaper’s lips.

The kiss doesn’t last too long. It’s mostly a reminder of _I can do whatever the fuck I want to you, Jack-_ he drops Jack’s head back to the mattress and rabbits his hips with far more speed and force. The soldier starts squirming again, whimpering in slight protest.

The Reaper starts touching him- hands flying up and down his shaft, thumbing the tip, cupping his balls- it’s touching for the sake of touching. The soldier’s not going to get off without his cock being played with- the Reaper knows this- and as delicious as it would be to cum inside him without giving the poor soldier the opportunity to orgasm, this is more fun. He knows, immediately, he made the right decision when the soldier starts bucking upward. The shameful expression on his face lets the Reaper know it had been _entirely_ involuntary, the kneejerk reaction of a pent-up body when faced with a gentle touch.

The Reaper laughs. Mockingly. The soldier flushes bright red with shame.

“You’re _into_ this,” He coos. The soldier sputters, incoherently. “Shut up. I felt you try to fuck my hand.”

He pinches the tip of the soldier’s cock, hears him cry out. His dick’s started weeping, precum beading at the tip.

“Slut.”

“Ga- Gabriel-” The soldier’s voice trembles horribly. “Y- you can- s-still stop-”

“I know. I just don’t want to.”

And he slams his hips harder into the soldier- repeated strokes that have the poor man _howling_ from the force- and _cums,_ hard, inside him.

The soldier whimpers, whines- revulsion flutters over the man’s face, presumably at the feeling of the Reaper’s seed inside him.

Or disgust at what has just transpired.

Or discomfort when the Reaper pulls out with a tiny, almost unnoticeable squish. There’s tangible resistance- The soldier’s clenching down again.

“Your greedy asshole’s still trying to pull me in,” The Reaper laughs. “Doesn’t want to let me go.”

“Sh- shut up-”

The Reaper slaps his left asscheek- adores the sharp whine he gets- and pulls all the way out.

“Oh, I forgot about _this,”_ He croons. He lightly plays with the tip of the soldier’s cock, uses the pad of his thumb to smear pre all over the head of his dick.

The soldier jolts. Whimpers, in misery- obviously, he thought his torment was over when the Reaper came.

Oh, not so, not so at all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DIDN'T BETA THIS & IT WAS WRITTEN IN SHORT SPURTS OVER THE COURSE OF LIKE A MONTH SO I'M SORRY IF ANYTHING SOUNDS JANKY


	4. Capture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God, what did they do to you?

The histories of the Reaper and the soldier went far, far back.

It was a long time ago, at least a generation, when they first met. They were mercenaries belonging to the same militia group. They interacted sparsely, unless they were both hired for caravan guarding or clearing a bandit infestation. They were not close; not even on a first name basis.

That changed when the two of them encountered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. They, alongside many others, volunteered to be subjects for an alchemist with a honeyed tongue and silver-sheened words. The alchemist had promised he would enhance their strength, speed, and senses, and not just with the regular application of potions. He lured them in with the promise of the transmogrification of their very bodies and souls, promised to unravel them and put them back together again with such power and might that no mortal man could ever hope to achieve it unaided.

It took less than a day of negotiations before the majority of the group the alchemist was to experiment on gathered their possessions- and, cruelly enough, some of the alchemist’s own things- and promptly scarpered, leaving behind only ten test subjects to work with and diminished supplies. Once the alchemist had realized the organized disappearance of his participants and tools, he was promptly thrown into a rage at the betrayal and clasped the remnants of his volunteers in irons.

Over the coming months, the ten of them- Reyes and Morrison included- staged many ferocious attempts at escape, none successful. They were stuck, with no clear end in sight. The alchemist was not swayed by threats, pleads, curses, or bargains; he steadfastedly continued his research with an iron grip and no regard for human suffering.

The captives were subject to serums that burned like fire through their veins, or solutions that felt like black ice in their stomachs, or draughts that seized and contorted their limbs like a paralytic venom. The ten subjects became more than acquainted with agony and nausea, all too familiar with the sensation of their bodies attempting to turn inside out and upheave their own organs. The pain forged in that pit of horror- the dark, dank stone corridors that they began to know as their prison, their dungeon, and for some, _final resting place_ \- was unspeakable.

There were migraines bad enough to drive a person to slam their head against a wall for some promised reprieve. There were chills and exhaustion, partners in cruelty, that could keep a person bedridden and feverish until the unspeakable threat of more torture forced them to move. There was an unquenchable nausea, unrelievable by any means. Many subjects vomited until there was nothing left, then dry-heaved until they collapsed. Dizziness and confusion, formerly inconveniences, plagued _everyone,_ whether they’d received injections that day or not, and made concentration and communication difficult. There was a cavalcade of other symptoms, some unique, some wide-spread. Diarrhea, lethargy, uncontrollable crying, swelling, fever, and rashes were all commonplace. Reyes was afflicted with a pox that made the skin of his hands bubble with fluid and flake off; Morrison had the unfortunate symptom of vertigo so terrible that he could hardly stand.

At the end of it all, Morrison, Reyes, and one other were the only surviving subjects. Two had found the willpower to slash their wrists and had died, relatively peacefully, in their cells. A further two had died from the application of one of the serums, causing a swelling in the brain that the alchemist was too late to try to alleviate. One had attempted to kill the alchemist before she could be placed on the long-hated, long-feared operating table, and the alchemist was forced to kill her in self-defense. One suffered a severe allergic reaction to one of the serums, and fought a long and desperate couple of days to stay alive before he succumbed. The final died due to a mistake in the alchemist’s surgery, when he had been attempting to study the muscle mass they were supposed to be gaining and had sliced a little too deep.

From the very beginning, Reyes and Morrison were placed in adjacent cells. The only positive human contact they could construe was from one another- particularly after the death of the majority of subjects- and the spoken word was the only comfort that could be afforded in the hell the alchemist trapped them in.

It was during those grueling months of the alchemist’s experimentation that they became more than colleagues. Their shared suffering was a crucible, forging a bond of brotherhood between the two; the unspeakable things the alchemist forced upon them only built a stronger partnership, founded on agony and a deep, unending loathing, bordering on obsessive hatred.

Four months into their captivity, Reyes and Morrison were herded out of their cells and taken to a place neither of them had seen, in the endless march down even more endless corridors: the room was large, spacious, and well-lit, with a flat, hard-packed earthen floor and smooth walls.

The alchemist did not subject them to more agonizing toxins, nor did he strap them down and drive a scalpel into their flesh. He hurriedly ascended to a platform far above them, beyond their reach, and magicked away the irons confining their legs.

“Run,” He had ordered, “Or I will take you to the table again.”

Morrison and Reyes had exchanged glances, and they ran, following the perimeter of the room again, and again, and again. When they raised a complaint, the alchemist would silence them and order them forward.

Both subjects had made observations as time wore on: they had run far. It was impossible to calculate just _how_ far, but they had run circles for what felt like hours, and neither of them tired or slowed. Their breath came light and easy, and there was no desperate ache in their muscles. Their calves didn’t burn, nor did their lungs; neither of them were distance runners, both preferring a horse or a slow pace on long journeys, and the revelation of their newfound stamina was slow and exciting, despite what had been done to acquire it.

The alchemist interrogated them as to how they felt afterwards, and only after a sharp grilling for information had he gleefully confessed it to have been _six hours_ of constant movement with minimal wear or pain.

The promise of the enhancements those four months ago seemed light and misty by now; Reyes and Morrison hardly recalled the bait that had lured them into captivity, other than to lament their stupidity for falling for it.

Their abilities were exciting for a reason different then why they’d wanted them; long gone was the lust for power, and in its place a slow, creeping hope to gain the upper hand. Both of them, without communicating to one another, had downplayed the effect on their bodies: Confessing to an ache where there was none, or purposely laboring their breath. If they wanted the advantage, the alchemist couldn't know the extent of what they were capable of.

They were allowed to rest, and were fed more substantially than the usual fare they were given. The following morning- they did not know if it was, truly, morning, but it was the time when the alchemist awoke them every day for experimentation- the alchemist collected them again, and took them back to that new room.

He made the threat of taking them back to his laboratory, with its vials and blades, and the two of them abandoned the pretense of toughness; they swallowed their strength and obeyed the madman’s orders. It was not distance running today; they were presented with numerous heavy objects and asked to carry them.

Their own strength was astonishing to them. The weight of a fully grown man was like that of a small child, and lumps of iron became as easy to lug behind them as a wooden string horse. When they were asked to carry the burden of fifty stones, they could shoulder it, though not without slight difficulty, the same way that a six hour run had just begun to wear on the edge of their new abilities.

They weren’t unstoppable, but their new limits were a tantalizing promise of freedom. The desire to escape was unspoken between Reyes and Morrison, but the both of them knew they’d need to find out what their limits were and see if it would be enough to unseat the mad alchemist.

The next day was different.

Reyes was taken first; he was placed in the now-familiar large room, which had a new feature: A wrought iron cage, and within, a massive mound of fur and hide.

The cage was opened and the alchemist commanded him to defend himself.

Reyes fought. He lived, though wounded, and the corpse of a half-ton grizzly bear became a testament to what he could survive and overcome through the serum’s treatment.

His wounds healed on their own. Not immediately- it took a week of runs, lifting, combat, and so forth before they didn’t hurt- but they healed.

Morrison was forced to combat a similar creature, though he had Reyes’ warning and advice, and managed to get through it mostly unscathed.

The next month followed at a more bearable pace than the months of injections. They were pushed to the brink of what their new bodies had brought them, and possibly beyond. There were countless trials- the alchemist would bring skilled bandits, magical creatures, gargantuan beasts, and so on to test their prowess, being careful to keep a rein on them as to not give them enough freedom in the trials to escape. But it wasn’t _torture._  

During the beginning of their fifth month in captivity, Reyes, Morrison, and the third test subject were placed into the familiar large room.

“The last one to survive will be let go,” The alchemist promised them from his lofty perch. “You’ll have graduated. No tricks. No strings attached. I just can’t have more than one of you running around; I’m trying to limit supply so the next group I market this to won’t think it’s something mundane.”

Reyes and Morrison make eye contact.

The third prisoner chokes a battle yell out of his throat and lunges for Morrison, arms outstretched. Morrison dodges and Reyes swings in from behind, delivering a crushing blow to Three’s back with his elbow.

He lands on his face in the dirt and immediately gets to his hands and knees, bucking outward with his feet and smashing them into Reyes’ kneecaps. Reyes makes a soft, understated grunt of pain, and Morrison clubs Three in the back of the head, slamming him back to the earth. The quiet _snap_ is his nose breaking from the impact.

There’s a fleeting second of eye contact, and the two descend over Three. Morrison obscures the alchemist’s line of sight with his back, and Reyes breaks Three’s neck with a quick crunch.

“I have a plan,” Reyes’ voice is low and coarse, burns in his throat like whisky. Soft and sweet, almost.

“Yeah,” Morrison responds, equally rough, paved with gravel. “Thought you might.”

Reyes takes Three’s head tightly in his hands. Veins bulge. Biceps strain. Morrison holds Three’s body down while Reyes tears his head clean off.

Reyes roars with an animalistic fury, thrusting Three’s head aloft, held by his hair. Blood gushes in an arrhythmic pattern from the stump of his neck, spluttering on all three combatants. Morrison cowers, pretends to be afraid when Reyes screeches _“You’re next”,_ and the alchemist claps his hands together in glee.

Reyes throws Three’s severed head with every ounce of the new strength he’s accrued. Blood arcs through the air, glittering like a festival’s ribbon, and the head finds contact with the alchemist’s body.

The snap is sharp and definite. Bones break and Three’s impact caves the alchemist’s chest in on itself like he’d been hit by a battering ram. There’s a defined indentation in his body where the head struck, and the projectile falls to earth with a sickening _splut,_ like a rotten tomato.

The alchemist doesn’t even scream. He stares, eyes bugging out, as his exposed ribs glisten with fresh blood. He staggers back from the edge of the balcony, but doesn’t make it far before he collapses.

“Hmph.” Reyes rasps, a second later. “Not a chance.”

Their victory, their freedom, doesn’t fill them with elation, or even the barest satisfaction. They’ve survived, and that’s all that matters.

The two begin a slow slog up to the balcony, following the path they’d never been on.

They search the alchemist’s body. They hunt for keys, for whatever they can use to ensure a safe journey out. While they’re there, they ascertain the alchemist’s death with a mercy he doesn’t deserve: A silent strangulation until his lifeblood ebbs and his breath stops.

Neither of them mull on or regret the brutality. They did what had to be done.

On their way, they destroy _everything_ they can get their hands on. Their cells. The equipment. Any documentation or paperwork they can find. The alchemist’s _room._ They get rid of _anything_ they can find in their path and navigate the long, mossy corridors until they find the way out.

Morrison and Reyes sob when they take their first steps outside; weep with joy and realization and pain and anger and hatred.

The sunlight hurts.

When it doesn’t sting anymore, they sit, and take in their surroundings. When they had entered that place, that _unspeakable place_ , it was spring. Buds were just beginning to form and life was dripping in after a long winter. The grass was soft and new and insects were beginning to return.

Now, the young leaves they’d left were brown and gold and orange, speckling the ground. The grass was dying. The wind was sharp and cold.

There was beauty, unimaginable beauty, _everywhere._

They collapsed the entrance, slowly, methodically, over a period of hours. Burying the lab so deep no one would find it again.

 

\ \ \

 

The Reaper drags the tip of his finger across the soldier’s dick, superheated skin flushed and sensitive.

“Not crying yet,” He intones.

The soldier’s shaking like a leaf. The exhaustion has come back, doubly bad. His limbs are quaking in their bonds, and God, his _body._ He doesn't even want to think about what’s been done to him; he just knows there’s an unbelievable, unbearable _ache_ deep inside him that robs him of his breath and _hurts._

_Reyes was his friend._

“The witch really hates you.” The Reaper continues. “Not as much as I do, but still. She’s never let me play with any of her captives before.”

The soldier makes a choked sound when the Reaper pinches his frenulum between thumb and forefinger, unable to keep himself from squirming. Lightning bolts jolt up and down his spine, alarm bells ringing in a discordant and distant clatter in the back of his mind.

The Reaper dips his head, tongue caressing the soldier’s glans. The bound man whines, nose wrinkling, and flexes his fingers, vainly pulling at his bonds.

“You know, I sometimes wonder if that _fuck-” the alchemist-_ “- had this in mind when he was building us. You're surprisingly wanting for such an old bastard.”

His teeth scrape, too close. The soldier gasps.

“Or maybe you just want this so bad…” The Reaper’s words send a chill of ice into his stomach. “That little things like _refractory periods_ don't bother you.”

“Gabriel,” he says, hoarsely, in a swollen voice he refuses to believe is his own, _“Please.”_

The Reaper growls- or laughs- and the sound is like distant thunder. He kisses the tip of the soldier’s cock and strokes his own flagging erection, coaxing it back into fullness.

“You’re just prolonging it,” the Reaper bares his fangs. “Just _cry,_ soldier. Before I start thinking of worse things to do to you.”

He touches the soldier’s hip, and for a moment, he expects the Reaper to envelop his cock in his mouth. The soldier braces for warm, wet heat that doesn't come; the Reaper’s head shifts up instead of down.

The monster positions himself carefully, pushing the soldier’s shaking thighs aside.

Dread claws its way out of the soldier’s stomach and out his throat. “No. No! No! Reyes- _Reyes-”_

“That name doesn't mean anything anymore,” his tone is dull, with a touch of amusement tinging it. He etches a line in the soldier’s skin with his nail, tracing the milky curve of his hip bone and leaving a tract of pinkened flesh in its wake.

“Stop!” The soldier’s voice pitches high, humiliating. “I don't want-”

“Shut up. If you didn't want this-” The Reaper grunts, his previously gentle fingers clamping down, “- you’d be a blubbering mess already.”

The first thrust skirts the rim of the soldier’s pucker. He jolts, trying to not shriek. It's _sore,_ not ready after the last assault.

“Is it pride?” The Reaper sneers. “Too good to cry? You’d prefer this to letting a single tear go?”

His next thrust makes it in. The soldier shouts, as if anyone will hear him, mindlessly throwing his weight at the ropes, thrusting his lower back up as high as it’ll go to deter an unflinching assault.

The Reaper ruthlessly crushes him back down to the bed. He's slower with his thrusts this time, though that is not a mercy. It lets the soldier agonizingly feel every bit of contact: the slide of their thighs, the hesitant and weak parting of his walls to accommodate the Reaper’s girth, the jittery bolts of adrenaline and pain. When fully sheathed, the wiry strands of the Reaper’s pubic hair tickles the soldier’s balls, a mundane and minute detail that almost sends him into hysterics.

Oh God, this really, genuinely, _sincerely_ happening to him.

The Reaper bucks, fiercely, a few times, and the soldier can't help but cry out.

“Slut,” the Reaper snarls, and the soldier isn't sure if he’s imagining that his breath smells like blood. There's a repetitive pounding all over, in his throat and ears and temples, that all seem individual when he thinks about them and come together to form a throbbing haze.

He thinks his eyes might be getting wet and he privately _celebrates_ that he’ll shed tears. The Reaper interrupts by ramming himself back in, and the soldier’s breath drives itself from his body before he can make a pathetic moan.

“Let's see how far you can go, old man,” The Reaper hisses, and the soldier wishes he could weep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween. With the one year anniversary coming up, I had to throw something together. 
> 
> This time, looks like it's an actual story.


	5. Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You shouldn't have made that deal.

The soldier feels _good._

Warm and tight, but less resistant than the first time. There's a little more slick to ease the way, and the soldier’s more lax than before, probably an instinctive urge to minimize the pain.

The old man has his eyes shut tight- his face is scrunched, lips drawn together and teeth grit. His body, contrary to his face, is relaxed, riding out the Reaper with minimal resistance.

The Reaper doesn't mind a more pliant partner. It just means the soldier doesn't have the energy to resist anymore.

“Don't go to sleep on me,” the Reaper says, voice light but labored. He grips the soldier’s hip and sets a more punishing rhythm, adding a few stressed creases to the old man’s already strained face. Some strangled sounds get through his grit teeth, pleasing to the Reaper’s ear; there’s a beautiful symphony of panting breath, creaking wood, sliding flesh and stifled vocalizations torn between pain and pleasure.

The Reaper slides his hand up the straining line of the soldier’s flushed cock, chuckling at the whine he induces.

“Good?” He purrs.

“Fuck you,” The soldier gasps, and his eyes open, blue and hazy. The Reaper _adores_ them, their cloudiness and desperation, and he leans into the soldier’s face, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He lags the pace of his hips, slow and purposeful, and drags his lips languidly down the line of the soldier’s chin.

The soldier starts squirming, jerking his head from side to side and digging his heels to the mattress. Seems like he doesn't _like_ this more leisurely fucking.

“I'll make sure you finish,” the Reaper soothes, mockingly. “Don't get fussy, old man.”

He slams back in, breaking the slow rhythm, and the soldier yips, his clenched fists reflexively flying open.

“Reyes-” He begins, voice thick and wobbly, sweeter than champagne. The Reaper loves it. “Please, _stop,_ anything else-”

The Reaper laughs; he squeezes the soldier’s cock to see him instinctively arch, then relaxes to a gentler touch, tenderly stroking. Both speeds- of his hips and his loose-fisted hand- are unhurried, torturous, so he can watch the soldier twist and hiss, trying and failing to keep his eyes shut.

“Come on,” The Reaper croons, leaning back into the soldier’s space. He kisses the old man, sucking on his lower lip, trying to bait him into a response; but there is none. “Squeal for me, Morrison. You were making such pretty sounds earlier.”

The Reaper tries to shove his tongue past the soldier’s teeth, to no avail- they're clenched so tightly they seem almost wired shut. He settles for licking at the soldier’s teeth- flat and worn, unlike the Reaper’s own.

“Open up, soldier,” he murmurs into the old man’s mouth. “Come on.”

When he doesn't, the Reaper discards his previous gentleness, driving himself into the soldier’s tight heat with as much strength as he can muster. The slap of his balls against the soldier’s skin is loud, profane, fast; the soldier twists, whining desperately through his teeth, and the Reaper struggles to keep his own control.

The soldier’s muscles flex around the Reaper’s dick, crushingly tight, and for a second there’s a spot of white-hot pleasure-pain that has the _Reaper_ struggling not to moan. He digs his fingers into the soldier’s hipbone, breathing staggered, as he keeps pummeling away.

The Reaper re-fits his mouth against the soldier’s, panting through his nose; he’s waiting for his opportunity to strike, waiting until the old man can't _help_ but cry out. He does whatever he can with his free hand- strokes him, fast, pinches his nipples, plays with his balls- and the soldier finally moans, attempting to stifle it, but not well enough. The Reaper snatches his chance, attempting to jam his tongue in the soldier’s mouth-

Only to be met with a forehead cracking against his as hard as the soldier’s restricted position will allow. The Reaper’s mind scatters with the blow, and he blinks, gyrating slightly as he attempts to regain his senses. He pulls out, planting his hands on the bed while he gets his bearings.

The soldier looks no better off- blue eyes dazed with pain, but a snarl frozen across his features.

“Don't like being kissed, sweetheart?” The Reaper asks, the meanness in his tone displaced by his brewing concussion.

“Not by you,” the soldier responds, licking his dry, flat lips. There’s a film over his eyes, a tint of redness that predicates tears. The Reaper’s job, sadly, is almost concluded.

“Please. Reyes. You can still… Just… stop.” He swallows, and hesitantly adds, “You owe me.”

“Owe you,” the Reaper repeats, placing his thumb on the soldier’s cockhead. He slides the pad of his finger back and forth, teasingly, over the slit nestled in the reddened crown. The soldier’s toes curl, and a ragged gasp leaves his throat. “That's rich. That's _rich,_ Morrison. I owe _you?”_

“Stop,” the soldier pleads, wincing, as the Reaper’s touch gets more aggressive. “Just- stop- we can _talk_ about this-”

“I don’t think so,” the Reaper says, soft and decisive. He hoists one of the soldier’s legs up, and fits himself comfortably between the soldier’s thighs.

He can feel his heartbeat slow, his breath calm. This is where he’s meant to be. Between the soldier’s legs, pounding into him like stopping will kill him. Listening to strangled cries, feeling flushed skin quiver at his touch, watching the fear and humiliation crawl across the soldier’s face- this is where the Reaper belongs.

The soldier was meant to be here too- why else would he move so responsively, whimper at just the right pitch, squirm in just the right way? Why else would he fit the shape of the Reaper so easily? And if he suffered, it was earned; Morrison deserved whatever pain was inflicted on him, especially if it gave way to the Reaper’s pleasure.

Reaper takes a moment to position himself, then forces his way back in. The soldier groans, in a combination of self-pity and agony, and the Reaper gives his cock a cheerful tug to turn a whine of _please, stop,_ into a wordless, animalistic noise.

“Something wrong, old man?” The Reaper pants, eyes fluttering as he pushes into the soldier’s entrance. God, he feels fucking good, fucking _perfect._ Hot and tight, straddling the line between vice tight and pleasantly firm. “You look like you've got something in your eye.”

The facial expression he receives in response is furious enough to melt steel. The Reaper smiles at him, all teeth, and bucks a little harder on the following couple of thrusts.

It's like that for a while. Hitched, hiccoughy breaths, rife with self-pity, from the soldier; some miserable moans when his cock is played with, the repetitive slap of skin. The ever-present creaking of the bed becomes the background ambiance.

In the middle of the Reaper thoroughly enjoying himself, he becomes keenly aware of a disturbance. It's not the soldier- not this time- but an odd sensation in the air, as though it’s been charged with electricity. The Reaper slows, getting only a moment to contemplate it before the hair on the back of his neck stands up.

The electric buzz in the air proves to herald the appearance of the Witch, who arrives in a shaft of golden light, scowling as soon as her features are clear enough to allow it. Evidently, she decided doors weren't dramatic enough to declare her presence.

She takes in the appearance of the two of them; drinking in the sight of their red-faced, shivering captive, and the man hanging over him, his member snugly seated between the soldier’s cheeks.

The Reaper halts, unthinkingly, at the unexpected intrusion, and the soldier responds just the opposite. He begins struggling, the added sight of the Witch causing a crescendo of panic. The Reaper puts a halt to it by placing a firm hand on his chest, just beneath the rope, effectively holding him down.

“He’s not crying,” the Witch snarls, her blue eyes meeting with the soldier’s momentarily. “Were my instructions not clear enough?”

“They were,” the Reaper responds, tersely. He shifts to cover more of the soldier, hooding his prey from the Witch like a raptor with its fresh kill. The soldier is _his. He_ is the only one who gets to see the expanse of his pale, scarred skin- the only one who can see the anxious curve of the soldier’s cock- the only one who can listen to his stifled sounds and watch his fuzzy blue eyes. “He’s nearly there. Give me a while longer.”

“I didn't give him to you so you could have fun, beast!” The Witch all but roars, seeing right through him. “ _Remember_ that whatever pleasure you derive from this is inconsequential.”

The Reaper stares at her, hoping his hatred will be conveyed through sight alone.

“Don't lose sight of your purpose, _monster_ ,” her tone dips low as her eyes narrow. “You’re mine to command, and you'll obey my orders- _Unless_ you would prefer I send Junkenstein’s pet monster or the Summoner to torment this piddling hero?”

The very prospect makes the bottom drop out of his stomach.

“He’s _mine,”_ The Reaper spits. The soldier has a hopeful look in his eyes, staring at the Witch as though she would save him. He should be looking at the _Reaper_ with that frightened, optimistic face, seeking mercy from _him_ rather than the Witch. It makes the Reaper’s skin prickle, his flesh burn, with a feverish sensation of _jealousy,_ bordering on rage. He lays his hand on the soldier’s face, fingers coming to rest in the indentation of his scars; he wrenches the old man’s head away from the Witch, forcing him to stare at the wall opposite to her. “I _won’t_ let you take him from me. Not now.”

“You're forgetting your place, beast,” the Witch glares, her blue eyes wide and wrathful. “Take that tone with me again and you’ll get _hurt_.”

The Reaper is familiar with her punishments; it subjects him to the pain of his soul unknitting from his flesh, and then the agony of its return. He had felt it both slowly, over the course of several months in the alchemist’s lab, then very _quickly_ through the Witch’s magical rebukes. He is not eager to experience either again soon.

“I have just as much claim to him as you do to me,” the Reaper growls, though his tone is low and respectful.

The forgotten soldier tries to pull himself up, by the headboard; the Reaper shudders at the sensation of the old man’s body moving around him, dashing whatever vain hope the soldier had had that he’d be too distracted in conversation with the Witch to notice.

The Reaper lets him move for a few seconds, then promptly corrects the inch or so the soldier had managed to extricate himself with a sharp, brutal thrust that takes him back to the root. The resulting squeal seems to soften the Witch’s rage.

“I don't like to wait,” the Witch warns.

“You won't have to,” he responds. “He’ll cry in a moment. I have it in hand, mistress.”

The humble tone and title seem to do it. She steps back. “I'll return shortly. Don't disappoint me.”

An unexpected voice chimes in:

 _“No,”_ the soldier gasps, trying to twist his head back to see her. The Reaper doesn't let him; he applies unnecessary force to his skull to keep him down. “Witch of the Wilds- I want to bargain.”

She all but glows. The Reaper digs his nails warningly into the soldier’s skin, but it does nothing to shut him up.

“I don't care about Addlersbrunn,” he rasps, voice thick, “I don't care about the archer, or gunslinger, or the king. Let me go and I'll never come to that town’s defense again.”

Before the Reaper can tear into him for his uncharacteristic cowardice- _the mercenary he knew would never make such a deal-_ the Witch laughs.

“A pathetic offer. I can kill you at my leisure, and that's a better assurance than your word that you won't come to the aid of that wretched little hamlet.”

The soldier inhales, uneasily, and nervousness sharpens his eyes. “Let Junkenstein do it, then. Or the Summoner. Or the doctor’s monster.” There's a ragged edge of emotion in the soldier’s voice, equal parts delectable and enraging; he throws back his head as much as he’s able and howls, “Just get him _off_ of me!”

“Close your mouth before your treacherous tongue gets you in trouble,” the Reaper snarls, crushing his head down. “Remember who you’re speaking to.”

“It's an interesting place to start,” the Witch hums, unexpectedly. “But you have more to bargain with, don't you, Morrison?”

She draws closer to the bed, and the Reaper tenses. _Morrison is his._

She extends her hand, tracing her finger around the shell of the poor man’s ear. “You have something.”

“Yes,” the soldier says, pleadingly. That ragged crack, that broken sound- his eyes are shiny and wet, tears threatening to spill. “Get him _off_ me.”

She steps back.

Her voice is cool, calculated. “Finish your work, Reaper-”

“ _No-!”_ the soldier cries, jerky with panic.

“- and leave. Morrison and I have things to discuss.”

“No,” the soldier begs. “There's no need to do that, I'm _willing-”_

The Reaper doesn't wait for him to finish whatever weak excuse he attempts. He throws himself into it, fitting his teeth in the slant of the soldier’s collarbone, hands cupping the gentle curves of his ass, working a tireless pace to show to both the Witch and the soldier that the latter was _his._

The soldier doesn't scream, but there's more than his fair share of grunts and stifled howls, half-made pleads for mercy, until the Reaper buries himself to the hilt for a final time. The resulting ecstasy is hot and blinding, forcing a roar of bliss from his throat. The soldier’s accompanying cry comes not long after, high and choked and broken.

The Reaper pants, fast and deep, and is reluctant to disengage. He could keep going, and he suspects, so could the soldier. Their enhancements may have weakened with their age, but remnants still remain; and he wants _more._

“Reaper,” the Witch does not need to complete her command. He pulls out, obligingly, with an almost unnoticeable squish. The soldier trembles.

He’s sobbing, the Reaper notices. Real tears, carving glistening tracts over his skin. There's a momentary tickle of displeasure in the back of his skull, and it disturbs him. He looks away.

He would like to kill the soldier now; very desperately. He’s obeyed his order and fulfilled his desires as much as he could. The omnipresent, gnawing burn of _vengeance_ is beginning to come back, demanding he seek justice for what Morrison had done to him- but the Witch looms over the soldier, her honeyed voice already seducing him to her side.

Disgruntled, the Reaper begins buckling his belts, straightening his clothes. He picks his pumpkin up from its spot on the floor and places it on his head; shadows appear darker, and lights brighter, but he adjusts.

“Out, Reaper,” the Witch commands, and he is bidden to obey her, catching a last glimpse of the soldier’s tear-striken face when he closes the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy beginning of the Halloween event. 
> 
> I'm considering doing a serial killer/stalker au featuring Slasher: 76 and a civvie Gabriel. 
> 
> We'll see.


End file.
